1890s. You had always been rather beautiful, with blonde curls and blue eyes. You had happened to catch the interest of an experienced painter, Basil, at a late night party about a year ago.

Now, you two are close friends; you frequently modeling for his pieces, and him often giving you advice.

Tonight, as always, you’re in his studio, sprawled across a cushioned divan. Your curls, strewn across a pillow; your smooth skin, your tired eyes and low lashes; your features were exactly what Basil wanted to capture in his art.

“A masterpiece, yet it lacks life.” He had commented, his eyes flitting from your body resting gracefully on the divan to his canvas. Almost seemingly trying to spot the anomaly, a mistake he had somehow made.